Divorce, Design, and True Freedom

ike a stranger' s apartment. The air was stale with the lingering scent of last night' s party. A half

te leather sofa I had chosen, the one he sai

s wearing one of my silk robes. He was stroking her hair, w

a punch to the gut. But all I felt was a distant, clinical sadne

ng takeout on the floor because we couldn' t afford a dining table. He had just secured his first round of fun

he become this hollow shell, t

resence. Emily sat up, pulling my robe tighter around herself, a sm

said, my voice even. "And f

"Papers? We' re not talking ab

. "Why would you ever want to leav

ing here," I

He stopped a few feet away, his e

id, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial wh

dn' t want to hear his

keeps me sharp, it keeps me on top. And you... you can' t give me a child, Sarah. You know that. They

body' s failure, and twisted it into an excuse for his depravity. He saw me as a ba

he man he used to be was extinguished. A

laced the new set of divorce papers on the cof

I said, my back to him. "I'

ng moment. I could fee

s voice laced with a dark amusement. "This little game of yo

leave, only to be placated by an expensive gift or a hollow promise. He couldn' t see that the

st time he cheated, and I forgave him. I remembered the first time he belittled my work, and I let

re over. This time, I